18
by M Li
Summary: Everywhere Michael went, he knew: if he just turned, everything would be all right.


Series: Harry Potter  
Genre: Drama/Horror  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Well, you probably should have read up to OotP by now if you're reading any of my fics.  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to J. K. Rowling. I'd like to thank the influences for this story, including Lewis Caroll, the 'Herman stories' of my youth, and 22 years of very odd dreams.  
Notes: This story is based off a plot from Liberi Bellum RPG. It took several weeks to write (about 18 days, in fact). I hope you enjoy.

-1-

His forehead was stinging—blistering. Behind his closed eyes the skin glowed red. He could feel the prickle of a burn beginning. But his feet weren't hot. They felt a bit too dry to be wet, but he knew they were, because the water that lapped at them kept them cool. He knew, though, that water and sun was a bad mixture, and even before he cracked open an eye, he knew he'd find them a brilliant scarlet. He was right.

The only question was just why he was lying on a—he sat up and looked around—beach. Granted, Michael was a big fan of white sand and salt water, but that still didn't explain exactly why one moment he'd bee in Hogwarts, and why he was here now. Not only that, but he was no longer in his robes, but rather what seemt to be loose pants and a linen shirt. He knew quite well that he'd been in robes and slacks all day. Had someone changed him? But as he stumbled to his feet, it appeared that the beach around him was devoid of any other human.

He could see at the top of the dunes a large Ferris wheel and assorted theme park rides and some boarded up refreshment stands. He walked towards those, hoping they'd lead him to a street where perhaps he could find out where he was and maybe even why he was where he was. However, his initial assumption that he was alone was wrong, because as he neared the nearest hot dog window, he saw a man who appeared more like a pile of garbage than a human napping against the side of the deserted structure.

Now something struck Michael as a bit odd, and that was the fact that it appeared to be high noon on a summer's day, and no one was on this beach. None of the stands were open. None of the park rides were in motion. There was nothing but the ocean and himself and this old beggar. Not even seagulls were flying overhead. It was eerily quiet, save for the rush of water over the sand behind him.

"You're in Coney Island," the man beneath the garbage bag with what appeared to be broken bottles and half-eaten nachos glued to it said.

"Aren't you hot?" Michael asked, eyeing the black plastic around the man that could either have been a tent or clothing, but in the heat of the noon sun, it was probably miserable. "What is Coney Island?"

The man laughed and shook his head, and Michael could see that his wiry white hair was in dreads. He knew they were dreads because he'd seen Dean Thomas wearing his hair like that a few times. The old man's hands appeared, gnarled and warped. In fact, he was missing thumbs, but then Michael realised he wasn't really missing thumbs, because his thumbs were hopping across the sand towards them pulling along a small drum set, which, upon destination, the man began to play in a sort of Jamaican style, belting out in an odd accent, "Coney Island, Coney Island, Coney Island beach! Whoop whoop!" He proceeded to repeat this chorus over and over again until Michael realised he'd never get another answer from the hobo.

He began to walk back towards the surf, feeling oddly cold despite his tingling skin and the sharpness of the sun beating down on him. He could still hear the old man's chant-like song behind him, so he walked down until the water was washing over his feet, and he wondered why the beach didn't smell salty or fishy or any of those things that beaches usually smelt of. Rather, it seemt to have a rather dusty and frigid scent, as though it were the musty inside of a refrigerator left on too cold. However, the drone of the water did tune out the old man, and so it looked like things were looking up, if only nominally.

That's when he saw the floss-like tendrils of near transparent white wafting through the water towards him. The jellyfish's body expanded and collapsed in on itself like a dying heart. He tried to draw back, but he found himself suddenly waist deep in the water, and he couldn't fight the current. He struggled, falling backwards into the surf. Dirty, sickeningly salty water filled his eyes and nose and mouth, and he tried to scream, because despite the agony of ocean water in his eyes, the tentacles were drawing ever nearer.

He surfaced again, trying to run back to the shore against the weight and draw of the water. The jellyfish was close behind him now. He could tell because each time it suctioned in and billowed out, it made a sound like a heart beating, and he realised then that if he was on the beach, there must be lifeguards out, and if he just turned, he'd see the stand, and he could motion for help. He was momentarily blinded with pain as one of the translucent tentacles touched his ankle. He could feel himself going cold, and he realised he was going to drown before he could ever turn and call for help.

-2-

He was still cold when he awoke. Perhaps that's why he woke up. It was nighttime, and he could still hear the sounds of water lapping against a hard surface, only this time it wasn't him the water was hitting against. He could smell the wood around him, and he could feel the ribbing of the boat against his spine, so when he sat up, he knew to be careful. He was in a Gondola slipping down, what seemt to be a waterway in Venice. A woman gondolier was standing above him. He couldn't see her features as she was looking down at him so the moon and the torches from the buildings were behind her. However, when he sat up, she drew her oar out of the water and sat down at the back of the boat.

"It's cold," he remarked, wishing he were wearing more than that simple shirt that had appeared out of nowhere. It occurred to him that he was not dead, and that it was perhaps the gondolier who'd rescued him. Not only that, but he had the odd feeling he was in a whole different part of the world. "Am I in Coney Island?"

"No, where is Coney Island?"

"I don't know."

He pulled himself onto the seat at the fore of the vessel and peered at the woman across from him in the moonlight. She had timid looking hazel eyes, but a strong, overly firm jaw (stubborn, he thought), light brown hair that frizzed at the top and curled at the bottom, and the smell of honey was wafting off her softly so that he felt compelled to say, "Daphne?"

"Daphne?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?" he asked, and he realised that on a nearby wall just before and above them, and large tabby tom cat had burst out into a song by Elvis Presley that he could not recall the name of, nor could he even recall the words or the tune, but he'd heard it once before, and so he knew that's what the cat was singing. Of course, it didn't surprise him at all that the cat was singing, as it was probably an animagus, but nonetheless, it did set a mood quite nicely.

"It's a pity you aren't, then," he said after a moment of staring at the candlelight in the fuzz of her hair.

"It's a pity I'm Emilia, then?" she asked, and he wondered if she wasn't mocking him, but she seemt genuinely confused over the matter, so he quickly thought to reply in apology.

"No, it's actually terribly wonderful that you're Emilia, except by Emilia, do you mean Daphne Emilia?"

She smiled, and it looked as though the moon was reflected in her eyes, which in and of its self was rather odd, since Michael had never seen the moon perfectly reflected in anyone's eyes. When he turned, in fact, it looked as though the moon was about to collide with the earth. "Is it always that big?"

"When it waxes."

"And when it wanes?"

"Then it's not quite so large, is it?"

"That's terribly nonsensical, Emilia." It struck him that he'd forgotten to press her to answer truthfully whether she was Emilia or Daphne, except as he thought of it, he realised that he wasn't supposed to upset her, because if he did, the cat would fall off the wall, and as they were just passing beneath it, should the cat fall from the wall, it would surely fall into the boat and turn it over, thus drowning them both.

"I'd rather fancy not drowning," he remarked, staring up at the cat whose hind end was in the air making rather lurid jerks that seemt all the more so unsettling in a feline form.

"I would rather not either," Emilia-who-wasn't-Daphne replied with a smirk that made Michael believe that Emilia was lying about being not Daphne, because only Daphne smirked like that and only Daphne smelt like that and only Daphne's hair looked like that in candlelight.

There was a rustle of feathers, and Michael felt a sharp stinging in his shoulder. He turned to see an eagle had rested there, and its talons were digging against his bone, so that blood was starting to well across the borrowed shirt he was wearing.

"That's a bit rude, I should think."

"Oh, sorry," the eagle replied, loosening its grip, and Michael's blood began to recede and return to his body. He felt a weight on his other shoulder and noted a large barn owl had situated itself there.

"Good evening."

"It is, isn't it? I fancy I've missed dinner, though," Michael replied, realizing that his stomach was grumbling a bit. "Do you suppose we could step off the gondola for a few and have a bite to eat?" he asked, returning his gaze to Daphne, except she and her oar were gone.

"Pity that," said the owl.

"Bad luck, mate," said the eagle.

And with that, both raptors flung into the air, causing such a force that the boat began to shake madly, and Michael knew that if he didn't turn and try to grab for the side of the canal, the boat would capsize, and he would surely drown.

-3-

"Are we in Thailand?"

"India, if you must know."

"I don't think I ought to be here. You know, decades of English oppression and such… I doubt anyone'll be fond of my sort. Also, I don't fancy elephants much," Michael replied, frowning from their box high on the elephant's back. He realised that Daphne—no, Emilia—had just appeared out of no where, because he was absolutely sure that it had been at least a few days since he'd seen her last. However, he was still trying to figure out if she really was Emilia, or if she was Daphne playing a trick on him. Both seemt possible in this place he was in. And really, maybe she wasn't Daphne or Emilia, because if she was Emilia lying about being Daphne, then she might actually also be Daphne lying about being Daphne, and really… One could never be overly sure of these things.

"It's a bit hot, isn't it?" he asked, trying to draw his shirt away from his now sweaty skin.

"You look a bit pale, don't you?" Daphne replied, offering him her handkerchief that appeared to be made of hippogriff feathers.

"Cheers," he said, taking the item and trying to dab the sweat away from his forehead. Of course, he didn't think feathers were terribly absorbent, but then what did he really know about feathers anyways? These seemt to work well enough in removing the perspiration from his face.

"I rather fancy this sort of transportation."

"I would have supposed you liked apparating more."

"What is apparating?" Daphne asked, looking thoroughly puzzled as she took his hand and placed it around her shoulder. Since she was Emilia who could be Daphne, and thus quite probably Daphne, he didn't resist.

"Well, you know, it's when you magically move from one place to another. Like wizards do."

"What's a wizard?"

Michael was rather confused about why Daphne did not know what a wizard was, given that she, as far as he knew, was a witch, and it was possible she'd apparated the very last time he'd seen her. Surely he'd been apparating; else wise how could he possible be venturing so far a field so quickly? "Well, it's someone who can use magic, of course."

"What is magic?"

He thought she must be taking the mickey, but her wide hazel eyes and barely cocked head seemt to indicate she was genuinely oblivious, and he was quite certain she was Daphne then, so he tilted her chin forward and kissed her in the fashion that they never kissed, but she didn't seem to mind, instead laying a perfectly cool hand on his cheek. In fact, the inside of her mouth was pleasantly chilly, too, and he thought that was rather nice considering they were trooping through a jungle in one of the hottest countries in the world on the back of a great beastly elephant who was probably causing them to be hotter through the body heat rising from its back.

"Do get a room," remarked a female voice from before them, and Michael drew away from Daphne to see a large silver and green tiger was sitting on the elephant before them. The tiger looked rather put out, as it's tail—which appeared to be at least three metres long—was pelting the elephant's head. The elephant didn't seem to mind, though, trundling about in a way that made Michael feel distinctly seasick.

"Oh, but I also fancy tigers," said Daphne, who was smirking at the feline as though the two of them were sharing a secret, and when Michael looked at the tiger, it seemt that she, too, was smirking. It was a bit off, but he didn't think it was important enough to mention, simply hoping the two would let him in on their joke.

"I imagine she'll never leave now," the tiger was remarking, now looking more annoyed than smug.

"But I want to be with him, aye? Who knows how long…" Daphne looked terribly sad, her forehead crumpling and eyes welling with tears, and Michael was certain that she would burst into loud sobs then and there, so he drew her closer, but she didn't cry, instead she burst out laughing, and he realised the tiger had made a joke.

"I don't suppose you'd mind not taking the piss on me," Michael remarked, feeling justly annoyed, because the joke, he thought, was at his expense.

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist," the tiger replied lazily. "I think I shall take a roll in the grass. It's rather green at this time and cool. I don't suppose you could drag yourself away to join me?"

"You don't mind, do you, Michael?" Daphne asked.

"No, please go right ahead," Michael replied, and Daph---Emilia climbed out of the cart onto the tiger's back, and in a single bound, the two had disappeared from sight somewhere in the jungle.

Michael leant forward over the edge of the contraption and cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said to the elephant. "Would you mind setting me off at the Three Broomsticks?"

But the elephant did not seem to speak, and instead it continued on its slow way. However, it occurred to Michael that he had no way of knowing when and where the elephant would stop, and he was terribly thirsty, so he was certain he'd become ill if he didn't have a drink soon. It was just so bloody hot. "Excuse me!" he said louder.

"It's like talking nonsense to a snake," said a voice from beside him, and he realised the owl had lit on the side of the carriage.

"You're in fine form, aren't you?" Michael remarked, throwing himself back in his seat and resigning himself to whatever torturous and slow death awaited his dehydrated and boiling form.

"Ah, yes, but you ought to watch out, because the flupotionthattasteslikefrogs is coming right now."

"The flew what?"

But at that moment, Michael suddenly found himself propelled from the side of the carriage and plummeting over a ravine towards what seemt like a very rocky and narrow river. If he just turned a bit, he could grab a root and be saved.

-4-

He'd thought he'd had enough of large and dangerous beasts, Muggle in fashion as they might have been; however it seemt it was not yet the end of them for Michael, because as he nervously sat at the edge of the blue and white checkered picnic blanket, he knew that it was a rhinoceros that was eating his corned beef sandwich.

"Aren't you hungry?" asked the two-headed girl across from him, who was nibbling daintily on what appeared to be an ostrich leg.

"No, not really," Michael lied, watching the one-horned mammoth swallow the rest of his meal. He turned to Padma-Parvati, because that's who the girl appeared to be, and he wondered which side was which girl, because both had their hair down, and even though they were sharing the same body, they looked as lovely as ever. "Your hair is very fetching."

"Thank you, Michael," they replied as one, both looking flattered and both tossing their hair over their shoulders with one hand. The faint sheen of sweat over their throats, which contracted briefly as both girls swallowed, was also very appealing, and Michael thought it rather good that Daphne was not apparently a mind reader, because she did seem to have the ability to apparate even if she didn't know what magic was, which meant that she'd been showing up at surprising times over the past few days and nearly frightening him to death every time.

Of course, he couldn't exactly recall what he'd been doing until this point, but that hardly mattered, because he was certain that the impression was accurate. Also accurate was the fact he was still thirsty and still terribly hot. Still, he couldn't help but think he fancied a cup of tea, and so he told Padma-Parvati as much.

"Just one cup?" they asked, handing him a saucer and teacup so small he could really only fit one finger through the handle.

"One will do." The tea itself was not tea, but he couldn't complain because there was a dash of cinnamon and a spring of mint, and so the presentation really left nothing to fault. In fact, the liquid in his drink had a strong underlying flavour of whisky, and he really couldn't recall how he knew what whisky tasted like, only that it made him feel rather nice, and the unpleasant heat was no longer quite so unpleasant.

"It's a good sort," Padma-Parvati remarked to her selves, nodding in agreement.

"Isn't it, though?" Michael added.

"You can't have them both, you know," said the eagle whom had perched upon Michael's shoulder whilst he wasn't looking.

"I suppose you will then?" Michael replied with a faintly raised brow.

"I suppose I will," the eagle replied and sprung from Michael's face, batting him with one powerful wing on the way up, before alighting on Parvati head's shoulder.

"We're sitting right here, you know," Padma head said. However, Parvati head didn't seem to mind and began to engage in a rather lively conversation based upon limericks with the raptor. Padma head sighed to herself. "I suppose we'll have to do the same, but those two are to blame."

"I don't much like rhyming," Michael replied.

"Oh, but if you're going to be dull, go elsewhere and mull."

Michael thought that was a good idea, so he climbed upon the rhinoceros's back and told it to head east, which, of course, it did. It wasn't long, he noted, before he was joined by Daphne who was riding what appeared to be an enormous red lion. The lion seemt a bit annoyed by the fact and was making no small deal of the matter.

"It's a lovely day, aye?" Daphne remarked by way of greeting.

"A bit warm."

"Would you get off now?" the lion growled, but Daphne ignored him. The lion appeared to have electric green eyes, and Michael thought it perhaps looked a bit evil. He had a bit of time to look, too, as the lion and Daphne were quietly insulting each other in voices too quiet for Michael to catch what exactly was being said.

"You are a nosy one," she replied to whatever the lion had just said, and the lion stopped, its front end lowering, and proceeding to shake her off.

"I just wanted a look," the lion said irritably. "You're no help at all, though, are you?" And then it was bounding off into the hazy sands. Michael wondered if his eyes were perhaps watering, because he'd never seen the horizon look melted like that except in movies, but perhaps it was because he was simply that hot.

"I don't suppose you have a drink on you?"

Daphne shook her head and climbed onto the rhinoceros behind him.

"Oh well."

Hopefully the rhinoceros, at least, knew where to find a water fountain.

"I don't much like lions," she muttered.

"Me neither."

"Though I am rather fond of rhinoceroses. I'd like to have one someday."

"With a griffon?" Michael asked.

"I wonder if perhaps you could breed a rhinoceros and a griffon to get a griffon with a horn?"

"Do you mind if I call you Daphne?" Michael asked rather suddenly because it struck him that Emilia must be Daphne, and he was growing weary of her little joke.

"If you must, but I prefer Emilia, because that's who I am."

His shoulders slumped, because he was beginning to wonder if Daphne had perhaps gone insane, and that would be rather depressing since she was the only coherent human he'd seen lately.

"Watch out, Michael."

"Huh?" He tried to turn to see her, but lest he fall of their mount, he couldn't rotate that far.

"The flupotionthattasteslikeparsley is coming."

He hit the burning sand hard, and it seemt to him that his breath must have been knocked out of him, which was very uncomfortable.

"Try not to burn. I'll see you at the oasis, aye?" Daphne-who-was-Emilia called back to him even as she disappeared into the steamy horizon. However, Michael could tell that he was already melting, because his mouth was under the sand, and he was distinctly aware of the fact he was choking.

-5-

"You haven't told me that you love me in a long time," Daphne said, looking rather put out as they stood in the crowd of people awaiting the release of the bulls.

"I suppose it slipped my mind," Michael replied, trying to see the black brutes over the crowd, but it was impossible to see past the mass of sweaty faces. "Rotten smell, isn't it?" he remarked, wrinkling his nose against the acrid scent of human odor.

"I still love you, even if you don't."

"Don't what? Of course I love you, Daphne."

"Of course you do."

"Well," he paused, "I don't recall starting to not love you, so I suppose that means I still love you."

Daphne seemt satisfied by that reply and squeezed his hand. Hers was still remarkably cool, though he knew his own was slick with perspiration. It felt grimy, and he rather wished he could wash it off wherever Daphne had washed hers, because hers felt perfectly clean. He was quite certain now that Emilia was Daphne, and she was simply in a bad mood (possibly because of woman troubles), so that was why she was giving him a hard time about things. She could be terribly difficult when it struck her to be so.

Still, she was his girlfriend, so even if she were feeling as though she ought to toy with him, he'd do his best to play along, which was why they were standing hand-in-hand in Madrid under the broiling sun waiting for the bulls to be released. At least they weren't at the back of the line, because Michael had heard most of the people who died were at the back.

"I don't like animals," Michael said thoughtfully.

"I love them," Daphne replied, looking stung.

"Well, that's not to say I'm entirely against animals… Of course pets are all right."

"Like a dragon?"

"If it's small enough…"

However, now they were running, and he realised that if he continued nattering on, the other runners were going to pass them, and they'd surely be killed. Daphne was not finished yet, though.

"It's been almost four months now," she murmured so that he had to lean down a bit to hear her and wound up nearly falling on his face, but he managed to keep his footing and continued to pull them both along since it seemt she had no interest in self-preservation.

"Are you sure it's not more? It's rather hot. Seems like July to me."

She laughed, stopping in her tracks, and the rest of the crowd washed over them in a wave of banging elbows and harsh dirty smells. Michael rubbed his now throbbing temple and turned to eye the street behind them warily. The bulls were several blocks back, but not nearly far enough, so he grabbed her wrist and began to pull her along with some urgency, which appeared to annoy her, because she halted and refused to go any further.

"I don't like to be grabbed," she said angrily, peeling his hand off her wrist.

"All right, I'm sorry," he replied, noting that the line of bulls was getting substantially closer.

Daphne frowned at him irritably, though again he couldn't say why she was being so touchy, and then started off again. So of course, because he was the only obviously sane person, he followed after her. It was rather unpleasant running around the streets of Madrid, and as they continued on several blocks, sweat was definitely beginning to pour down both their faces. However, the bulls were narrowing the gap, and Michael knew they only had a few more blocks to go before they were at the safety point, because even now he saw the blue wooden stall in his head, and it said 'Safety Box' in neon letters above it.

"I was thinking," he panted.

"Of?"

"Well, you know we're having all these little excursions that don't seem like they really should be occurring, so as long as we're achieving the implausible, shouldn't I be able to do other such things? For example, wouldn't it be nice if tomorrow I could be someone else?"

"But I love you. Not someone else," she replied with a frown, wiping one hand across her forehead and heaving on ahead.

"Well, I suppose, but if I was someone else, I'd still love you."

"Yes, but if you were someone else, you wouldn't be you, and even if you thought you were you, you wouldn't be really."

"Well, I know I'm me, but I don't know you're you, because you seem very much like Daphne to me in every possible way down to that bloody mole on your wrist, and yet you say you aren't!" For some reason, Michael suddenly felt terribly angry, and it helped his exhaustion to vent. "You leave when you want. You come when you want. You ask if I love you still. But then you just go when you want again! And me? I'm stuck here! So what about me? I'm starting to wonder if this is even real!" Of course he had meant the state of their relationship, but it seemt she took it otherwise, because the look on her face was not so much an expression but a collection of broken words written in bright red that made no sense as a whole, and before Michael could try to piece anything together, he realised his chest was feeling very wet. Wet outside of the sweat.

He thought he ought to not look down, but of course even when he tried to not, he did anyways, and he wasn't terribly surprised to see the horn through his chest. What he was surprised about was the fact the blood pouring out of it was forming stains on his shirt that read, 'Mudblood.'

He didn't look up, because he'd never looked down, but when his attention returned to Daphne, she'd already turned away.

"Please don't leave me," he coughed.

But she was already drifting away down an alley out of sight because of course when one in pinioned to the spot via impalement, it's very difficult to have a good look about. The scent of her hair was also dissipating, and he knew with that that she had left.

"Tough luck on that, son," said the bull in his own voice. He didn't bother to turn as he nodded.

-6-

The tiger was back; though this time she was joined by what appeared to be a paper crane kite that was just as capable at the English language as the tiger. The kite's string was tied at the base of the first tiger's tail, but despite that, it seemt the tiger and the kite were unaware or at least uninterested in one another's existences. It made things a little awkward for Michael who wasn't sure if the two had come to bother him or aid him in his hike towards Llhasa. It appeared that winter had set in, because he was feeling a bit chilly again, and there were large glass snowflakes falling from the sky and shattering on the stones around them. It seemt a bi t of a safety hazard, and Michael wondered why there weren't any warnings signs regarding it.

Luckily, however, it seemt that he now had an umbrella on him, too. It was a black, frilly affair, and it made carrying his luggage a bit difficult, but it kept the glass snow from falling upon his head

"I don't suppose that's terribly safe," he said to the paper crane whom was bobbing on the wind and narrowly missing being struck by the snow. Michael paused to glance over the side of the trail, and as he suspected, the base of the mountain was several thousand kilometres below them, which validated his concern for the crane.

"Oh, don't you worry about me," the crane replied. "Worry about yourself. You're the one walking asleep. I'd hate to see a handsome face like that go tumbling."

He wasn't exactly sure why, but the origami creature was making him blush.

"Do you ever go anywhere without all that?" asked the tiger who was eyeing the enormous packs strapped to his back with something akin to distaste.

"Well, they're mine to carry, aren't they? So why shouldn't I?"

"Because it's frankly ridiculous," the tiger replied snappishly.

"I think it's rather ridiculous that you don't bring your things along when you're going on a journey such as this," Michael replied.

"That's because I don't have baggage."

"Everyone has it."

Their argument was interrupted by the crane whom had managed to work her way under Michael's umbrella. Perhaps this was made possible because it was more like a beach umbrella now with a pole nearly as long as himself and a rather large stretch of clothe above. It hadn't seemt so large before, but as the tiger, too, was joining him beneath it, he thought it was probably for the best.

"You never know how to find her," the crane said conversationally.

"What's that?"

"You're never where you ought to be. If you're never where you weren't meant to be, you're always in the right place."

Michael thought that made sense, but then, "How do you suppose I'll know where the right place is?"

"When you find her, you're in the right place."

That was a terribly enigmatic answer, and it caused Michael's earlier annoyance to surface again, except now it was the tiger interrupting.

"You don't know the way, do you? I bet you didn't bother to bring a map."

"Of course I did," Michael replied, reaching into his pocket. "I'm always prepared. I could have been a scout." However, what he pulled out was not the bit of parchment he'd expected, but a mouse, which he stared at for a moment, his pulse suddenly racing and his hands breaking out in sweat, before he promptly attempted to throw it over the edge of the cliff. The mouse gave a terrified shriek as it sailed through the air, but luckily the crane rescued it.

"That wasn't very nice, Michael," she chided.

But Michael wasn't paying attention, or rather, his attention was completely focused on the rodent riding the crane under his umbrella. It was only a metre or so above him. That mouse could touch him again. It could bite him. If it bit him…

"Mice to maps, mice to maps," the tiger intoned monotonously, as though somehow that should explain everything.

"Keep it away from me!" Michael said, stopping short and slamming the pole of the umbrella into the ground. He wouldn't budge as long as that dirty little rat was in their party. The others could just go along without him. The tiger, crane, and mouse paused several feet along and stared back at him. The snow seemt to be falling down in an arc around them.

"I forgot he failed it."

"Yes, utterly botched it, I'd say."

He was about to remark on the fact that he was standing right there, and thus it was unnecessary to talk of him as though he was invisible; however, right then it occurred to Michael that these creatures probably knew about magic if they knew that he'd failed the mice to maps lesson in transfiguration. It also came to him that he ought to ask them about Daphne's little game, since she refused to acknowledge magic, Muggles, or anything else that made perfect sense, including her own name.

"You know what it is then?"

The tiger glanced at the crane, and the mouse clambered down the string attaching the crane to the tiger and proceeded to hide itself in the thick forest of the tiger's coat. The crane was laughing, and the sound of her laugh was so high pitched that all the snow glass was shattering, exploding into bursts of tiny shards. Before Michael could even think to shield himself, bits of ice were in his eyes. He grunted in pain, feeling his eyes water and well up with heat, and he realised the glass had cut his eyes, which was rather unfortunate, because he could now no longer see the trail. If he'd just thought to turn, he would have missed that cloud of glass.

"Pity that, isn't it?" the crane remarked.

"You can't use magic to find her. You have to use yourself," the tiger said from somewhere ahead, but Michael could no longer see past the sheen of tears and blood. He continued to try to clear his vision, ignoring the others. If they were going to be like that, he could do without them. If only Daphne were here, though. She'd know how to wash all the mess from his eyes. Surely she'd done it before in care of magical creature, even if she wouldn't acknowledge as much. He could dimly hear the others squabbling. It took him a moment to realise what they were saying.

"Don't cut me loose!" the crane cried.

"You're hurting my tail," snapped the tiger. "Off you go, then."

"No!" squealed the crane, and Michael could hear her cry fading into the distance.

"That was a bit ruthless," Michael said to himself, assuming the tiger had gone on ahead, but the end of her tiger swatted his ankle, so he knew she hadn't left yet. It was little comfort, though, given how much aide the feline seemt to want to offer. Hadn't she just thrown the poor crane out into the free air to fend for itself? He reckoned the tiger was a bit of a cow.

"A cow, am I?" the tiger growled, but Michael reflected she always was growling, so that really was of little surprise. "Well, cow I may be," she continued, "but at least I'm not a fool: gravity is mass with the addition of speed. It's best to forget your baggage."

"Wh--?" he started to ask, but it suddenly occurred to him that he was falling, most likely because he still couldn't see the path ahead of him.

"Go to the right place this time," the tiger called from above, her voice just audible over the whistle of wind in his ears that verbally marked his descent, and he knew that she could have helped him had she just extended her ridiculously long tail. That tiger was definitely a cow.

-7-

"I don't suppose you'd mind adjusting my towel, would you? It's slipping a bit, and I lack opposable thumbs."

"Of course," Michael replied, helping the eagle to refasten the towel covering its lower half. Why it was bothering with a towel was beyond Michael, except for the fact that everyone in the baths was wearing a towel, so perhaps it was simply a tradition. The eagle didn't really seem the sort to trouble himself over fitting in, after all. How Michael knew this was beyond him since he'd only seen the eagle a few times since he'd awoken on that beach, but nonetheless, he accepted these random instances of information rather readily, as he was quite keen on anything that made sense.

Being in a Turkish bath did not make sense, though conforming to towel wearing in one did. He'd forgotten just exactly why he'd stopped into Turkey, or even how it had come that he'd entered the mosaic and steam filled baths, but when in Rome (or Turkey in this case)…

The only problem was that the steamy room was just that: it didn't really help the sweat dripping down his cheeks to evaporate, which made him feel a little nauseatingly hot. He couldn't imagine how the eagle felt since it could hardly shed its feathers for the occasion.

"Could do with a glass of water," he muttered.

"Well, you could try to catch the condensation in a jar and drink that."

That didn't seem very sanitary somehow, because, as Michael contemplated it, if the water was rising and people were sweating, then wasn't it possible that the sweat was evaporating just a bit, too? Which of course meant that any moisture he did manage to trap would also contain bodily fluids, and he didn't like that idea at all.

"That's all right," he replied, waving a hand nervously in case the eagle decided to press on, but it seemt the bird was not so concerned with Michael's comfort to continue, instead shrugging its small shoulders and fluffing out its feathers.

Michael stared up at the ceiling of the alcove they were haunting. The blue and bronze tiles coalesced there before breaking off into a rather large mirror. Michael noted that he looked a bit thinner and pale that usual. It was most likely because he was dehydrated and a little feverish. Once again, he thought he really could do with a glass of water and perhaps a cool sponge.

"It's serve yourself here," the eagle remarked. Michael was not very fond of these animals that could seemingly read his thoughts. Then again, maybe he was just that easy to determine. He wasn't sure which he preferred, as both seemt equally derogatory.

"I don't suppose there's anything for me to serve myself with," Michael replied.

"Of course there is," said the eagle. "The only person who can make you stand and eave to get that drink is you."

"It's that easy, is it?"

"It's always that easy. Everything life is based upon self-service. Either you figure things out for yourself or you fail."

"At life?"

The eagle nodded with uncharacteristic sobriety.

Michael didn't much feel like standing at the moment, though, so he decided to give this self-service business a try later when he had regained a bit of energy. He did feel dreadfully tired lately. It was probably do to the incessant travelling.

The eagle appeared to be singing a song to itself in a throaty baritone. "Peas in a pod, peas in a pod, the farrier's out, the horses not shod."

Michael wasn't entirely sure he was familiar with the word 'farrier,' so he didn't remark, instead letting his eyes slip down a bit and listening on. The eagle's voice was a bit lulling. It made him feel protected someone, which was a rather odd thing since the eagle had not been especially helpful or concerned thus far in his journeys.

It reminded him of Anthony a bit, though, which was a rather bittersweet thought, because he was certain Anthony would really have liked going on outings such as these, and Michael could have done with a bit of friendly company. In fact, the more he considered it, the more he realised he was exceptionally lonely. The bitterness of his solidarity seemt to be coming off of him in waves, because the steam in the air began to clear, turning cool and condensing on the tiles.

"Do buck up," the eagle said with an irritated frown. Michael realised his bad mood had interrupted the bird's song, and so he apologized profusely. "Well, I'm certain you'll be mindful in the future, so no harm done. Would you mind getting me a cup from the fountain?"

Michael blinked and realised there was, in fact, a fountain in the center of the room outside their alcove. Water was pooling in it, and on the rim was a series of crystal wine glasses set in a triangle. He wasn't sure why he hadn't realised it before, but chalked it up to being delusional from the heat. He stood and made his way to the fountain, scooping out two goblets of water to return to the eagle with. However, on his way back, the steam had returned, and the water evaporated.

"You're taking a long time figuring it out," the eagle remarked dourly.

"I'm sorry," Michael replied, putting the glasses down. He admittedly felt a bit stung. The eagle was being a bit snappish, and Michael had just been trying to help. It wasn't his fault that his resumed cheer had made the water disappear. Hadn't the eagle asked him to cheer up in the first place? And what about all that talk of self-service? Shouldn't the raptor then be getting his own drink?

"But I lack opposable thumbs, as I said before."

"Then how would you be able to drink from the glass at all? Really, there's no need for being ridiculous!"

Michael's outburst, however, seemt to cause the eagle no lack of amusement, and it slapped the tiles with its long wings, laughing heartily. Of course, Michael felt inclined to ask what was so funny about the situation, but the eagle was already recovering, preening his chest and eyeing Michael ambivalently.

"Whatever it is, I'll figure it out. You don't have to laugh," he muttered.

"But isn't that what friends are for?"

Michael paused, contemplating it, and it did seem to him that good-natured ribbing was all part of being mates, at least it was with Terry and Anthony, so he nodded. However, thinking of his best friends reminded him that he was very much alone, and the depressed cold began to settle over the room again.

"I suppose you're sour over Emilia?"

"What?"

"That's why you're lonely, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is in part." Michael wondered, then, where Daphne had gotten off to, and what he'd said in Spain that was so awful that she'd avoid him for this long. He realised that the air temperature had dropped considerably, so that the dots of water lining the tiles were now turning to ice.

"I think you ought to hurry up and go back to her, then," the eagle said, appearing to become annoyed once again at Michael's brooding.

"But I haven't seen her in days," he retorted. "And it's not as though I haven't tried. I've searched and searched. I don't know what I said, but it seems that she's quite put out this time."

"Well, it seems to be your way, so I suppose you'll pull through somehow."

"No advice, then?"

"You're on your own, mate, so please go get changed."

Michael supposed that was the eagle's way of telling him to leave, so he stood and started on his way out.

"You'll have to do it on your own. She won't help you," the eagle said from behind him, but as this apparent attempt at advice was very poor indeed (and because the eagle had told him to get lost in the first place), Michael didn't bother to respond. "Oh yes, and the flupotionthattasteslikeonions is coming."  
"Bloody hell." He realised he was crashing to the floor before he even thought to turn and duck.

-8-

It appeared that Greece was the right place, because Michael found Daphne sitting on a large boulder at the base of an olive terrace.

"You know, it's the wind blowing like this over the leaves that the term 'flashing eyed Athena' came from," Michael remarked, sitting beside her.

"Is that right?" she asked, turning to him with a raised brow.

She didn't seem too irritable, so he continued, "Because the olive leaves are a sort of green-gray when they're flipped over."

"Oh, I suppose I can se that," Daphne replied, leaning back on her hands. Her arms formed a tense line to her shoulders, and Michael got the feeling that she didn't want to be touched. "Draco has eyes like that, you could say."

"I don't care much for Draco Malfoy."

"No one cares much for you."

Michael took a sharp breath, feeling his heart give a painful jerk, but he forced himself to smile despite the fact that raising the sides of his mouth against that just below the surface exhaustion and the sting of her words was in fact physically painful. It felt almost as though he was trying to smile around a busted lip.

The wind picked up again and stole away whatever she said next, but since she still was in that tight position, he didn't think he ought to lean closer to try and catch her words, so after a moment of trying to piece together the sounds into a complete sentence and utterly failing, he decided on the safest path, "I'm sorry."

"Do you love me, Michael?"

"Of course I do," he replied, feeling more than a little taken back as it was the second time she'd doubted his feelings to his face. Did he really seem so thriftless? Sure, he'd heard what the birds were saying. He'd seen a large flock of little blue and red ones settling in a corn field, and all of them had been chattering on about how he was a cheater and how he'd never succeed because his heart was too weak, but he knew how he felt, and gossipers be damned, he was not faithless. "Is this about Mackenzie?"

"No, it's about how you keep leaving me waiting."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know where the right place was," Michael replied, though he didn't feel very sorry because he was certain there was no way he really could have known where the right place was as no one seemt to want to give him a straight answer about anything lately.

"I feel like you're dead."

"What?" he asked, feeling rather alarmed by the sudden coldness of her words, and in fact, as she spoke, frosty mist was coming from her small mouth.

"You're dead"

"I'm not!" He was, after all, entirely certain that he was alive, despite the brushes he'd had with death earlier on. After all, he was here, wasn't he? He lifted his hands, looking them over as he turned this way and that, and then he held them out to Daphne to observe. "See? I'm right here. How could I be right here if I wasn't alive?"

"You're not," she replied hoarsely, refusing to look at his hands, but rather staring pointedly at her own feet. The stiffness of her stance was accentuated by the fact that her shoulders appeared to be trembling just so, like the way moths' wings tremble when they've lit upon the glass on a windy night. In fact, he then noticed that she had a small set of dusty tan wings poking out from the back of her shirt, and those, too, were faintly shaking. "What do you ever do anymore? You don't even look like yourself. You're just there," she said the last three words slowly, punctuating each one with a brief pause.

"I'm… but I'm here?" he said, staring at his own hands again as though to reassure himself that he was, in fact, not dead, because her resolute tone was making his own certainty waver. "Is there something else you want from me? Just tell me, if there is. I can't read your mind." He was feeling a bit panicked, because it occurred to him that either she really thought he was not alive and talking to her, or she was saying that he was not holding his end of their relationship, and he couldn't think of how he had failed when he'd worked so hard this time. The again, as he considered it, he'd worked rather hard the first two times, too. But third time was supposed to be a charm, as the words in the clouds were presently reading.

"You're just there," she repeated, a single tear sliding down her cheek. It had a sort of oily iridescence so that even in the dim light of the cloudy day, he could see rainbows forming on the surface of the moisture.

"I'm not dead," he replied unsteadily, feeling as though his own voice was about to break, though out of fear or frustration or the sheer misery of the fact the only person he thought he could relate to of late now was dismissing his existence. "I'm not," he repeated with more fervor.

She turned to him with her multi-coloured tear streaked face, and for a moment it seemt that her eyes weren't so much hazel as the green-gray flash of the olive leaves. Somehow, though, it didn't strike him as powerful or clever as Athena, but rather as infinitely sad, and his breath caught harshly even before she spoke, and he tried to turn away and leave before whatever she was about to say could be said.

"Wake up, Michael." Her voice echoed across the terraces and blew the leaves from the branches. Michael stared blankly at the sky now filled with the flashing silver and green of the olive leaves. They slowly fell from the sky, covering Michael from head to toe. He tried to pluck them from his arms, but it seemt the leaves had rooted themselves to him for the time being. He turned to Daphne, and she, too, appeared more as a hedge sculpture than a person, but she was smiling sadly through the leaves, and eve if it was a cheerless smile, it was a smile.

"Don't leave me," he said quietly, desperation cutting through his voice despite the calm of the scene.

She touched his hand softly and sighed.

-9-

Anything anyone ever said about the healing powers of Japanese hot springs… was not terribly off. It was unpleasantly hot at this point, but at least the headache he'd had before was gone. He thought he might have been having it for days, though he wasn't quite sure why he thought as much; nevertheless, it had evaporated along with the tendrils of water floating upwards towards the night sky—which was a brilliant shade of royal purple with two quite lovely orange moons.

He leant back against the rim of the bath and stared up at the steam rising towards those moons. It was terribly relaxing, though he did find himself somewhat wanting for company. It was just as he was considering the fact that such a lovely night was wasted on a solitary person that he realised he wasn't alone. At first he thought the owl or the eagle must have returned, because surely no one else would disturb him whilst he was bathing, except the form wading through the chest-deep spring had a dark cape of hair trailing behind her through the water.

At once, Michael found himself going bright red, and he was tempted to try and leap from the pool then and there and simply hope no one was inside the dressing room, though since there were apparently no other men in the onsen, there probably weren't there, which of course was entirely irrelevant because nothing was really relevant other than the fact that Daphne had seemingly stumbled onto the wrong side of the springs.

He cleared his throat, trying to duck down into the water until only his chin was apparent. "You've got the wrong side, Daph," he said, hoping she'd then just make an explanation of surprise and return from whence she came (which was presumably the women's side); however, she did nothing of the sort, instead slowly crawling through the water toward him, and even in the heat, he could feel the skin of his arms prickling. What could be more embarrassing than being caught by surprise in the nude? Well, Michael had a good idea of it, and so he tried again. "Daph?"

"What is it, Michael?" she called, and now he could make out her features from beyond the steam, which meant she was nearly close enough that she could touch him if she wanted.

"Well, you seem to be a bit mistaken is all," he replied, scooting back to the wall, but he could go no further back nor down, so hopefully she would now realise her folly and this rather inappropriate interlude could end before he became truly embarrassed.

The moonlight was momentarily silhouetted by the form of a crane, and it caught Michael's attention for a split second, which meant that when he turned back from the moons, Daphne was standing close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. Now that she was this close, it was rather hard to recall that the situation was beyond improper, and she'd probably never want such a thing, but her hand was sliding over his shoulder, and his brain was sliding away, too. In fact, he could feel it slopping out of his head down his lungs and chest and stomach… Well, it certainly had no desire to stick around and add reasons why he should say no, though he was sure he was gawking, mouth parted in a vain effort to find some way to remind her of the fact they were both very not dressed.

"Sometimes I think it would have been better to never have known you. Then I wouldn't have felt like this, and I wouldn't have to miss you," she mused seemingly to herself, looking rather melancholy. Her hand slid from his shoulder around his neck and was soon joined by the other, and he thought perhaps his throat was filled with stuffing, because, and maybe his head, too, because nothing that ought to have been uttered was coming out.

Finally, he replied with, "I'm sorry?" Though truth be told he was a bit offended that she'd say as much. After all, if one really loved another person, shouldn't all the bittersweet waiting (though when and why Daphne was waiting was really beyond him) be worth it for the simple reason that you knew what love was and you were in love and well… He didn't like her reasoning very well at all, but he did like the fact that she was drawing closer, and her skin was brushing against his under the water, which had a bit of a funny feeling. He hadn't expected it would feel like such, but it almost felt as though there was a barrier between them, which gave him a bit more confidence.

She didn't continue in her contemplation, though she did still look rather glum, but that was all well and good with Michael since he didn't understand why she kept bringing up missing him in the first place when he was right there in her arms and under her chest and when he thought of that thinking wasn't so necessary. He swallowed harshly, trying to keep his eyes locked with hers rather than lower. She didn't seem aware of the fact there was anything amiss in the touching of bare skin. It seemt almost as though she thought she was embracing him as they normally did with robes and shirts and all that good nonsense between.

He momentarily had the funny feeling that it seemt she was hugging him as though he wasn't there; not that he wasn't physically there, but that he wasn't mentally there. However, it was a disconcerting thought, so he immediately banished it.

"You needn't miss me," he tried, once again gulping softly and forcing his eyes to the cowl of dark hair that was now curling ever so slightly around her face. Her bare leg slid against his own, and his hands clenched in the gravel beneath him. "Even if you had a reason—which of course you don't—if you don't want to miss me, there's really no need to at all, is there?"

"There's every need for it," she sighed, brows tightening in mild vexation. "Because I love you."

"And I love you, too?" he replied, trying to not make it sound like a question, but he was confused as to what they were even discussing. "You don't have to miss me. I said I wouldn't leave you, didn't I?"

Her forehead smoothed out once again, and he again noticed that her eyes seemt full of moon light, except not it was a bit confusing because there were two moons perfectly reflected in miniature size along with her pupils, which made it seem as though there were at least three orbs in each eye, and this time when he looked up, the moons were not so close, so he wasn't exactly sure how it was they were so intricately reflected, except that soon slipped his mind, too, because her mouth (which was looking a bit flushed and wet from the steam) was drawing closer to his own, and it really didn't take a genius to decide that staying quiet and letting her move in was a good idea, except she didn't. She paused mere centimetres from him and sighed again, and her breath felt cool against his mouth in a terribly pleasant way, so that he was a bit annoyed that she'd not pressed in the entire way.

There was something sort of wild about her eyes, though, which were hard to see at this narrow distance (and almost looked as though there was only a single one), and for a moment it seemt her hair might have been rising with the steam. The air felt electric and he realised the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he didn't like it at all. The static weight in the air wasn't so bad. It didn't do him any harm or active discomfort, but it did invoke a distinctly queasy feeling in him, and when he returned his attention to Daphne's face, she looked somehow foreign, though her eyes were still hazel and wide, her mouth was still a tad long and stubborn, her jaw still jutted just a bit, her nose was still straight and a little narrow, and her skin was still faintly freckled from being out in the sun with the animals.

"Stay with me," she murmured, her voice echoing oddly across the water and rocks. It seemt as though she had spoken twice simultaneously and both voices had echoed, which gave him a headache to even consider, or maybe it was just the return of his headache from earlier due to stress and the heat of the water. He tried to ponder her words through the dull throbbing and the heat which seemt to be rising to unpleasant heights which were simultaneously quite delightful because her other leg had slid against him and now her whole weight was on him and he couldn't imagine for the world why he'd ever want to leave. She seemt to understand as much, because she smiled to herself as though she'd just told herself a secret, and finally she brushed her mouth against his own.

-10-

He'd seen the painting before last summer when he'd been to Austria with his parents, and it had depressed him then. So he wasn't overly pleased to find himself shackled by the arm to the frame of Sir Anthony Van Dyck's "Samson and Delilah." In fact, he thought it might even have been one of his least favourite paintings of all time due to the theme. Delilah looked terribly uninterested in Samson's fate, whilst his expression seemt so despairing. He thought she must have been a horribly cruel woman. However, when he said as much to Delilah, she frowned at him and waved her hand dismissively, turning back to watch her lover be wrestled away and stifling a yawn.

"You're a class sort, aren't you?" he grumbled to the painting before turning to Daphne. "Don't you think so?"

The only good part about this enforced excursion was that she was in a Muggle museum, though when he'd remarked on it, she'd asked him what a Muggle was. He wasn't up to more mind games, so he'd just let it drop. She seemt bored by the painting Michael was presently stuck to, but he didn't want to be left alone with Delilah, so he had decided to not be so good as to offer that she go look at the other works on her own. Instead she sat on a marble bench just out of his reach and stared dully at a line of spiders climbing up a nearby corner.

Given that the spiders were in fact moving slowly, single-file around and around in a large square loop around the hallway, it did make for a slightly more interesting (and at least a slightly more appealing) subject than the painting.

"Funny things, aren't they?" Daphne remarked, looking as though she were about to stand and have a closer look. Michael gave a faint tug on the manacles strapping him to the painting, but it simply wouldn't budge, so he dropped his hand again. He would rather like a drink of water, but he didn't want to encourage her to leave even for that comfort because it would mean he'd be stuck here alone with Delilah's bored sighs and Samson's helpless sounds of struggle. Those were presently giving him a very queasy sort of feeling, and the thought of being trapped alone with those cries put him on the verge of panic as though he'd just seen trace of a rat.

"It's a hot sort of day, isn't it?" Daphne asked, fanning herself with a program that funnily enough Michael couldn't read even without the barriers of motion and German aside. He wondered if he was so thirsty that his eyes were now blurring, so to check he turned and looked at the label on the painting. He stared at it for several minutes in concentrated silence trying to determine if he knew the painting's information because he'd seen it before or because he actually could read it.

He only turned away when he heard Daphne's footsteps echoing from down the hall. She'd got up to inspect the spiders as he'd suspected she would. He once again gave a tug on the chain binding him, but it simply rattled faintly and held quite steadily. Michael wasn't overly fond of spiders, but he wouldn't have minded a closer look at this, as they were acting oddly.

"They're just garden spiders," she remarked, not looking at him, but rather leaning closer to the spiders on the wall. "I crushed one like this once." She glanced back at him and smiled lop-sidedly. "When Finnigan put that cheering charm on me. Remember? Of course I hadn't meant to," she continued, turning back to the spiders. "But it happened. Sort of like this."

And then her program smacked so loudly against the wall that the building trembled, and Michael was struck by the fact that should the structure collapse, he was in a bit of a bind. However, after the tremor abated, the walls were still standing, though there was now a high-pitched screech of many tiny voices and the clattering of hundreds of legs times eight running away.

Daphne looked at the back of her program that had several dead spiders stuck to it and wrinkled her nose. "That was unexpected."

Michael though it was wholly expected, but didn't say anything, instead eyeing the carcasses smeared across the paper with some disgust. Hopefully she would do away with the pamphlet before she neared him again. "That seemt a bit unnecessary," he remarked at length, now trying to condense his hand enough to pull it free of the iron ring, but his knuckles just didn't want to collapse quite enough to provide for that extra inch of diameter needed.

"Well, I'm sure you're bored, stuck like that, aren't you?"

He wasn't so much bored as ill at ease, but he nodded nonetheless.

"Then there's really no problem, aye?" She opened the window, which Michael seemt to recall had only just appeared because he knew for a fact that wall had been solid plaster only a moment before, and threw the program out of it, only the program had become an origami plane and the spiders were sitting on top of it holding Austrian flags.

It was beginning to occur to him.

"Am I dreaming?"

"If this is a dream, I'm not the real Daphne," Daphne replied, leaning out the window to watch her plane's progress, which of course Michael could not see, nor, because of that, could he see her expression.

He paused in his efforts to free himself and studied her, but she seemt intent on remaining halfway out that window, so all he could see was the line of her spine tensed forward and the white of her hands where the window ledge pressed in too hard. He narrowed his eyes and distractedly gave another tug before asking, "Are you the real Daphne?"

He had meant it, in part, as a rhetorical question with the faint edge of a joke, but her lack of response sent rows of goose pimples running up his arms and down his back. She pushed away from the window ledge and offered him that secret smile from back at the onsen before turning and walking away.

The paper airplane soared back through the window and landed at his feet. The spiders, all wearing helmets and scarves a la some sort of Yankee World War II movie, stared up at him a moment before commenting (in chorus), "Would you mind giving us another heave?"

-11-

Brazil was yet another place that was much too hot, and Michael didn't much appreciate that at all. Perhaps it was because they were in the rainforest, but it was also unpleasantly sticky. He really thought he could use a cool shower and dryer climes. Not only that, but Daphne, or maybe she really was Emilia, was nowhere to be found. Instead he found himself joined on the small vessel by a mime who seemt to not be wearing face paint, but a paper plate mask, which meant Michael couldn't tell who it was save for that the body under the black leotard was female. His other companion was a moth who could speak, but she spoke only in stuttering half sentences. Thus conversation was not a terribly simple matter.

He leant back against the far corner of the boat where he was resting and threw his arms over the sides. Too hot. Too boring. Where the bloody hell had Daphne gone? Where was the hawk or the eagle or even the tiger? The moth was trembling on the mime's knee, and he sat up a bit, waiting for the remark to come forth in slow, shattered procession so that he could try to piece together an actual thought.

"D-don't… h-hands!" the moth cried, and Michael blinked. That was right before he felt a sharp sting at the tip of his middle finger and realised he'd been bitten. In fact, as he raised now fairly bloody hand from the water, he noticed that the river around them was teeming with piranhas. He contemplated admonishing the moth and the mime, because they might have warned him, but he thought the moth would probably fall away dead then and there at such, so he bit his tongue and irritably returned to a normal sitting position in which he exhibited use of his spine.

"Will we be stopping anytime soon?" Michael thought he'd rather try his chances on land. The thought of the thousands of silvery little man-eating bodies surrounding their rather small boat wasn't much for his confidence. On the other hand, as he now recalled, the rain forest was filled with all sorts of horrible animals like army ants and snakes and poisonous frogs and big cats… Things that he was safe from in the boat. As long as the boat remained afloat, he reasoned they might be safe. The splashing of the piranhas that were hopping up out of the water at the boat still did little to abate his present case of nerves.

The mime pointed to her head and then to his and shrugged. If he was dreaming, his unconscious mind had no desire to help him out, so he stared blankly, and she repeated the motion. However, this time she also grabbed herself and bent over as though she'd be physically ill—which Michael sorely hoped she wouldn't, as they would then be stuck on the boat with vomit, if she didn't cause the boat to tip from moving about so much (the bad thing about having a mime aboard)—and then straightened and pointed to her head again. He blinked, and then asked, "Does my head hurt? Why, yes it does. I could really do with a glass of water."

He'd been asking for as much for several miles now, so he wasn't sure why she felt the need to ask. Being this hot really did little for the head pains he'd been experiencing for the last… He wasn't entirely sure, and that in itself worried him. He usually had a very good sense of time—of the past and the present—so it made little sense that his recollection of it would be as off as it had been recently. He clutched his dark, ragged hair in both hands and sighed. He recalled that he hand was still bleeding, and so in an effort to keep his hair from being filled with sweat and blood, he let his hands fall back into his lap.

"So then," he said, deciding it was now necessary to repeat himself, "any chance we'll be stopping soon?"

"D-don't… d-don't…!"

Michael leant forward to better peer at the moth, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"D-don't… d-don't…!" the poor creature tried again.

Michael continued to sit forward and stare at it hoping that would cause the moth to speak plainly and quickly.

"K-know!" she finally squeaked, and apparently the effort was too upsetting, because she took to the air and disappeared into the trees, and Michael could hear the sound of her soft, squeaking breaths from beyond the canopy for several minutes afterwards.

"Is she always like that?" he asked the mime, who shrugged.

At least the moth could speak.

Michael again dropped back against the end of the boat and let his hands fall loose between his legs. "Do you have a name?" he decided to try after a moment, but the mime just nodded and took to writing in the air, which of course made no sense whatsoever to Michael. "Very pretty," he remarked despite having no idea what her name could even possibly be, but that seemt to please her, because she bowed to him several times in thanks before pointing to him and then raising both thumbs.

"Cheers," he said, hoping she was complimenting him, because he wasn't sure what she meant otherwise. "Say, you don't happen to know a girl named Daphne do you?"

The mime shook her head no.

"Emilia?"

The mime paused and scratched the chin of the mask. Her head fell from side to side as she contemplated the name, but finally she shook her head no to that, too.

"I guess you couldn't. It'd be impossible to know everyone in his world," and his choice of words even gave him pause. "In this world?" he repeated to himself, but he noticed the mime was now leaning forward and apparently watching him with rapt attention. "This world… It's the real world, right? If it was a dream, wouldn't I have woken up by now?"

Of course, she simply shrugged.

He sighed under his breath and then continued in his soliloquy. "If, perhaps, this is a dream, then Daphne is really Emilia, but is Emilia really Daphne?"

The mime made no response, but she seemt even more attentive than before, if possible.

"If she's not Daphne…" He paused, staring up at the sun leaking through the palm leaves above. His brow furrowed, dark brows nearly touching as he tried to retain the train of thought which didn't seem to want to be followed even without the headache and the sweltering air around him. It seemt he was grasping at the end of satin ribbons. His understanding, the truth: they were within his grasp, but he couldn't get a proper hold, because even when he concentrated, the thoughts were too slick to retain. "If she's not Daphne," he repeated, not willing to give up despite the difficulty of whatever mental block he was experiencing. "But… everything about her is Daphne. I'm quite certain I love her. The only person I've loved like this is Daphne, so that must be…" He looked up, hoping that the mime might have some input, but she was pointing to something in the trees.

"W-watch…!" the moth had lit on his shoulder.

"Watch?" he repeated, turning to her.

"T-thefluepotionthattasteslikegrapes!"

The boat rocked violently and then capsized, throwing himself, the mime, and the moth into the piranha infested waters. He was getting just about sick of that.

-12-

He didn't much fancy the fur hats, especially since the mink that made up his own was speaking, and try as he might, he couldn't remove the ushanka from his head. Not only that, but the map of the train system made less sense than transfiguration. He couldn't seem to read a thing, which occurred to him was suspicious, because he recalled having noted being unable to read things before, and he'd heard that you can't read in dreams. Still, once again he had to return to the thought that if he were dreaming, now that he had some understanding of such, then shouldn't he now wake up? Given that he hadn't, and that the world he was in did seem quite real despite the sheer insanity. He couldn't convince himself one way or the other, which had done nothing for the continued throbbing pain in his temples.

Someday, yes someday, he really was going to stop thinking. He really ought to take up meditation. He should have spent more time in Tibet, except the whole falling from the cliff bit had put a damper on potential explorations in Buddhism.

Not only that, but it seemt the hat could read his mind, and it was making a running commentary on his every thought. He tucked the map back into his pocket for a moment and attempted to rip the furry bastard from his head, but it stayed put as though it had grafted itself to his skin, because even his own hair would come out if he ripped so hard. He sighed in acute aggravation and took the map back out, turning it over in the hopes that maybe he was just reading it backwards.

"You can't read Cyrillic, can you?"

"Of course I can't. I'm bloody English, aren't I?" Michael replied, momentarily considering setting the hat on fire at the cost of his own health simply because it would sooth his temper.

"Oh, but that's pathetic, isn't it? And I wouldn't recommend that at all. You're rather fond of that head of hair of yours, aren't you? Must be a pity that it's under me."

"Actually, it is," Michael replied to the hat, still trying to sort out the map.

"You know, it really is ridiculous to believe that girls would fancy a nice bit of hair over a nice bit of personality."

"Would you stay the bloody hell out of my thoughts for three minutes?" Michael growled.

"Why don't you show me the map? I know a bit of Cyrillic."

"You don't have eyes."

"Well, you do, and you still can't read it, so you may as well give me a try," the ushanka replied.

Seeing as the hat had a point, Michael commenced to holding the map above his head so the map could better view it. It was just about then that he received a tap on the shoulder and he turned to see the most hideous witch he'd ever laid eyes on. Her nose was at least four inches long and covered in warts. Her eyes were beady and black, like a rat's. Her fingers were long and somewhat claw-like, as though the skin was only adhering to the bone. She wore a moldy gray frock belted just below her sagging breasts, and in that belt was a pestle. Perhaps most disturbing of all was that though she had two legs, one was horribly disfigured, apparently stunted since childhood, as it was not even half the length of the other and hung, black and rotten, from below the dress.

However, beside the pestle was a wand, which was perhaps the most hopeful thing Michael had seen in some time. "Are you a witch?"

"I am. A famous witch."

"You don't eat men's bones, do you?" he asked, eyeing the pestle warily.

She gave him a toothy grin, except most of her teeth were gone, and those that weren't were sharp like wolves' teeth. He unconsciously took a step back, but as her hand was still on his shoulder, she moved along with him.

"Watch out for that one," the ushanka muttered.

"Do you want help?" the crone asked, and Michael was aware that she was speaking another language, except he could easily understand her, which made him wonder if it wasn't that she was speaking Russian, but rather that she simply had an overly thick accent.

"I can't read it," he replied, holding the map out to her. "I've been trying to find the right train for the last three hours. Every time I just end up here again."

"Here is a good place to be," she cackled, smoothing the paper and peering at the jumbled lines and letters. "I see, I see, but where are you going if not here?"

"I'm going to Daphne."

"Daphne's not here."

"I know. That's why I'm trying to leave here." He tugged at the ushanka because his forehead was starting to feel the prick of perspiration.

"I don't fancy you leaving me alone with her," the hat retorted lowly and refused to budge.

"You won't find what you're looking for on a map," the old woman replied, handing the paper back to him. "No Daphne exists here, and the only place that's here is here."

"You might have said that before." Obviously the hag was insane, and she would be of little aid. He'd simply have to find a conductor or a policeman or some person of authority who might be sound enough to give him a proper answer. However, he realised the old witch had not drawn away upon offering him her useless tidbit of information. Instead she was starting to move her sharp fingers down his shoulder.

"Don't let her take hold of your arm," the hat warned, and Michael nodded, attempting to extract himself.

The witch gave him another broad smile. "Do you like chickens? Chickens are good for many things. You can cut them up into tasty fillets or have their eggs for breakfast. They're blood is also good for diving…"

"Only if you're a dark wizard," Michael replied, becoming more disconcerted by the moment and trying more actively to disengage from her. His brows were rising up into the ushanka as he tried to draw up and away from her. Her breath was hot on his throat, though, and he had now taken to wrenching as hard as he could.

"I have lots of chickens. Do you want to come home with me?"

And every warning he'd ever had as a child to not go anywhere with strangers burst into his head at once, which caused a moment of intense pain), but the adrenaline-driven panic it lent him did help him to finally rip free of the crone's grasp. He didn't wait for the flupotionthattasteslikewhathaveyou nor a 'tough luck on that one' from passing fowl nor any other warning. This time, he just turned and ran.

-13-

"It looks like we're stuck," he sighed.

He'd found her again, except his stint of bad luck had not yet ended, and thus it was that he and Emilia were now trapped in a pyramid. Michael imagined that was not a good thing considering that no one knew where or even to look for them at all, and so he couldn't help but worry that they'd never be found. It was cold and dusty there, as it had been on the beach, and it gave him a desolate sort of feeling. Daphne was sitting by the former entrance with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin on her knees, and she looked as hopeless as he felt.

Michael had been attempting to find an exit, but the single stone that had given way under his hand had only served to release several asps into the chamber. If it weren't for the light of the fruit machines lining the walls, it would have been impossible to avoid them, so Michael had to be thankful for that at least. It was just a pity that he didn't have a single pound on him to play the machines. He might have won a few extra pounds, and then they could have gotten drinks somewhere, which would be nice since he was still terribly parched.

Daphne sighed from her spot in the corner and lifted her legs so that an asp could make its way beneath. It was probably because she was a Slytherin; that would explain the affinity she had with the snakes that tried to bite Michael whenever they neared him. The asp simply passed beneath her and slid beneath a fruit machine sporting several girls who looked like the reserve chasers on the Falcons from five years back in pink bikinis. Unlike the poster he kept in his room back at home, though, they didn't speak or move. That, too, was a bit of a pity since Emilia seemt to be intent on blaming him for their present predicament.

All right, so she hadn't exactly wanted to go to Egypt. Nor had she thought going inside the pyramids was an especially wise idea. On top of that, it was he who stepped on the lever that caused the door to close. However, if she really hadn't wanted to go, she could have just waited outside. At any rate, there was no point in continuing to be sour with him now as it meant that only he was presently making any effort to free them. His hands slid across the dusty orange stone with the hieroglyph of a cat goddess bathing for the tenth time, and he sighed.

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" he said, turning to face her again. The neon blues and reds of the machines nearby illuminated her skin, giving it a strangely fantastic tone, almost like the scales of a dragon from one of his childhood fairy books. Her eyes, looking a distinctly electric shade of green from the machine on the other side, which sported some large cartoon turtles, turned to him with an air of disbelief.

"Then you didn't find anything?" she asked, sounding exasperated.

"You've been watching me try for thirty minutes at least, haven't you?" he replied with an edge of anger as he had been working quite diligently for naught.

"Don't talk to me like that, Michael. Don't forget this is your fault."

He balled his fists, because right then he really felt like punching the wall, but it wouldn't do any good to go about breaking the bones of his knuckles now just incase the path to freedom did require some physical effort. "I'm sorry. How many times do I have to say it?" Girls were always making him apologise. He wasn't sure what he'd ever done to warrant this much apologizing, but he without a doubt had spent the last few years doing it. Still, at least there were some perks to dating, even if she was furious with him, and he decided to at least enjoy that, making his way over to her and sitting beside her with his arm draped over her. She could be angry. He was going to enjoy her company anyways.

However, when he glanced at her, she was smiling faintly. "I suppose it could almost be called romantic, if it weren't for the fruit machines and the asps and the certainty of a slow death."

Michael laughed softly and pressed his mouth to her hair. She definitely smelt like Daphne. Her shampoo was unmistakable. "At least we'll go together?" he replied, brushing the crown of her head with his lips with every word.

She giggled faintly, and he thought it had been a long time since he'd heard that sound. "There is that, at least."

He wrapped his other arm around her, and she easily fell into his arms. He closed his eyes, intent on resting a little while before he returned to searching.

"It's too bad you've been bitten," she sighed.

"What?" he asked, eyes widening as he followed her gaze to the asp wrapped around his leg. It took him a moment to realise that he was actually in agony. His arms released her to wrap around his own body and he bent double. A sharp breath escaped him, and he realised his eyes were watering from the grinding pain shooting through his stomach and limbs. Daphne leant back, and Michael was vaguely aware of the sound of heavy stone sliding back and the clean draft of air that followed.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she asked, though she was already standing.

He couldn't reply, though, as he was trying to grit his teeth against the cries that were gathering in his throat.

"You said you'd stay with me." She was looming over him, and he risked a glance upwards to meet her frosty eyes. "You lied." She sniffled softly and took a step towards the door. She had her back to the moonlight. His vision was blurring, and the shadows hid her face.

"You're not Daphne," he managed to wheeze.

"And you're a liar, Michael Corner. Why should anyone—including yourself—take anything you say seriously?"

"You're not Daphne," he repeated, but he was overwhelmed by the honey-sweet sent of her hair and the pale of her cheek in the dim light, and for a moment he thought she might be right despite his insistence otherwise. He couldn't deny that he'd lied on numerous occasions, to friends, family, girlfriends. Maybe everything he said was a lie. Maybe this world was a lie. Maybe… Maybe his existence was a lie. He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing back the pain. But he knew, even if everything he ever was or would be was a lie, Daphne had never walked away from him. "You're not Daphne," he whispered, realising that he'd fallen to his side, and the asps were sliding over his stomach towards Emilia in the gateway.

"You lied," she repeated softly and he could hear her turn to leave the tomb with her escort of snakes. The scent of honey was faint, piercing through the shrouds of misery. It seemt so real. Even if Daphne wouldn't walk away… It seemt so real.

"Please don't go," he groaned.

He could hear her feet pause in the sand just beyond the door. "You're saying you don't love me. You lied. Why should I stay?"

He had the feeling that if he let her go now, he'd die alone and in agony, but he'd gain something. Still, the thought of dying alone was more terrifying that the thought of dying. He wanted, more than anything, for Daphne to be there.

"Stay."

He could feel the cool cloth of her robes pooling around him and her chilly, pointed fingers brushing his cheek.

"If I'm Daphne, then you love me, aye?"

Somehow he managed to nod, though doing anything besides cringing in pain was growing more difficult by the moment.

"You love me?"

"I love Daphne," he replied hoarsely, feeling his fingers and arms growing numb.

"Then I'll stay," she murmured and drew him against her.

-14-

To return to an earlier topic, Michael was without a doubt a fan of long stretches of beach and surf. However, lately it just really wasn't working for him, especially as the eagle and owl sitting open his bare shoulders continually demanded that he pick up the surf board and set to the water. However, Michael was quite certain that he could see rather large fins surfacing above the waves, and Australia was well known for its Great White Sharks which often ate people. He didn't much fancy being eaten.

"It's a bit small of you," the eagle hedged.

"I'm sure we can surf by ourselves. Oh wait, we aren't human," continued the owl in what seemt an annoyed voice.

"No, I really don't think we ought to right now," Michael tried to counter. "Of course you can just fly away if a shark comes, but what about me?"

"Well, I suppose we could carry you," replied the eagle.

Michael pondered this. "Can you really do that?"

The raptors glanced at each other smugly over his head.

"Fine," he sighed, taking up the board and wading out a few feet. "But I had better not lose any limbs."

The ocean was a warm shade of blue-green, and Michael could just make out where the reef started over the waves. They were definitely tall, and as far as Michael knew, that probably meant they'd be good for surfing. Still, it was an undeniable fact that less one hundred metres away, sharks were looming.

"Go deeper," the eagle instructed, and because he still wasn't in deep enough to catch any good waves, he did slough in further. The waves were starting to rise up to his shoulders, and the eagle and hawk had to momentarily take to the air to avoid being splashed. Michael's eyes weren't so lucky, and he cursed softly even as he slid out even further.

"I think this is as far as we ought to go," he called to the birds above him.

"Get on it, then," the owl said, waiting for Michael to mount the surfboard properly.

"Still think this is a bad idea," he muttered, but he climbed onto the board anyways just as a rather large wave hit. The owl and eagle quickly returned to his shoulders; their talons dug unpleasantly into his bare skin, but he really couldn't concentrate on them lest he fall off the board. He'd never been surfing before, but it always seemt easy in movies, so he figured there wasn't too much to it, and the thought was only solidified as they reached the white sand, and the board slowly slid along the grit.

"Give 'er another try," the eagle demanded.

As he hadn't been eaten by sharks, and the whole activity had been remarkably easy, that didn't seem like a terribly idea. He was about to pick up his board when he noticed Emilia was standing several metres away in a green sundress. Her bare shoulders seemt blindingly white in the South of the Equator sunlight.

"You should stay," she said with a frown.

"You're a bit of a wet towel," the eagle remarked to her, fluffing up his feathers and shaking the water from his wings. "Go on, Michael. Let's have another go, then?"

"You should stay," she repeated.

"It's not a big deal," Michael said, giving her a confident smile. "Just watch. You'll see," he continued, taking the board and starting to wade back in. He could see rather than hear her repeat those three words, but he figured the eagle had the right of it: as nothing bad had happened the first time around, it seemt that there was really little cause for concern.

"Are you ready?" he asked the two birds who were floating on an unseen breeze. The two lit upon him again, and he figured that was answer enough. He pushed himself up just as the next wave was coming, and it was a large one. Really, surfing wasn't so bad. It was sort of like flying. There was a need for careful balance on an object that didn't much lend itself to such; compared to flying on brooms, surfing might have even been easier.

That's what he was thinking when he noticed the white body several feet under the board. It was only a split second before the shark moved upwards and took hold of the back of his board, snapping the plastic easily. Michael and the birds toppled into the water, and for a moment he found himself spinning around in the clutches of the waves, salt water burning his eyes and filling his mouth. Trying to spit it out only made it go up his nose, and he thought he'd drown, though that was preferable to being eaten. However, then he noticed red blooming around the water, and it wasn't coming from him.

The shark emerged from the cloud of scarlet, and it had the eagle in its jaws. Michael wished for all the world that it were himself, which didn't make sense, as the eagle didn't appear to be anyone he knew. He wasn't sure what spurred him, but suddenly he found one hand gripping the shark's fine and the other pummeling its gills. He wasn't sure where sharks were vulnerable, but apparently hitting it in the equivalent of its nose or throat did the trick, because it released the eagle, and Michael grabbed the bird up to himself just as he released he was being thrown onto the sand.

He was still rolling from the force of the wave, clutching his eyes so that the sand wouldn't get in them. He could feel the grit burning against his skin where he skidded, but at last the momentum ended, and he was lying on his back with the eagle lying limp on his chest. He could feel the heat of its blood sliding over his skin, and he immediately sat up. If he had his wand…! He turned to Emilia, momentarily hoping that she might recall her care of magical creatures veterinary training, but she was just standing over him, her shadow stretching far across the beach for what seemt like miles.

She squatted down and sighed sadly, running her fingers over the eagle's head. They came away slick with blood, and Michael felt his breath catch. He didn't hear her, because his head was pounding and his breath was coming in fast, dangerous spurts, but he knew what she was saying.

"Please, fix him," he begged, holding the limp animal against his stomach.

She shook her head sadly. "What can I do?"

"No, please, please," he said, shaking his head. He wouldn't believe it. He couldn't… This wasn't real. It had to be a dream. It had to be a nightmare, right? But the hot liquid sliding through his fingers and down his forearms felt undeniably real. He bent over, still clutching the eagle to him, and he didn't know why, because it was just a bird. It was just a bird, but he couldn't stop the sobs. He'd failed and now the eagle was dead in his hands, and it occurred to him that this might have been the worst mistake he'd ever made.

"Please, fix him," he murmured between the expulsions of choked air. Daphne was supposed to make everything right. Maybe Emilia wasn't Daphne, but she looked like her and smelt like her and tasted like her, so she should have been like her.

She didn't reply, though her face seemt full of answers unspoken and thus unknown. Her hand went to wipe at her eyes, and then she turned back to him. "It's in your hands. The fault, the answers, the promises, the lies, the remedy. It's all in your hands." She picked up a handful of sand and slowly let it stream from her hands, watching as it was picked up by the afternoon breeze and scattered. "How much longer?" she murmured to herself, but since it didn't seem to pertain to their conversation in the least, Michael ignored her nonsensical rambling. Didn't she understand the weight of what had just happened? It felt like he'd just lost a piece of himself.

"I don't have any answers," he finally rasped. "Only the blame." His fingers, trembling, smoothed out the golden feathers over the once powerful wings.

"You should have stayed. You'd have been safe with me."

Michael said nothing, lifting the eagle to bury his face in the feathers.

-15-

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Only in Paris," she replied lazily, crushing the cigarette in the black ashtray. It had an advertisement on it for Piron Spiegel Butterbeer with a red-faced little man in a 1700s wig hoisting a frothing mug up above his head.

He shrugged and tapped a cigarette out of her pack for himself. "When in Rome," he muttered.

"But we're in Paris," she replied, eyeing him as though he'd just said something terribly bizarre.

"It's just a saying," he replied, lighting it up. Neither of his parents ever smoked, nor his sister or friends, so he'd not been subjected to it, though he did recall having seen a video about the dangerous of cigarettes in grammar school. That would explain why he was suddenly caught in a fit of tapping.

"Drink this," Emilia said, pushing a cup of coffee over the glass table (which invoked a rather skin prickling unpleasant screech) towards him. He attempted to give her a nod of thanks between the coughs before taking a large swig of the burning liquid. He could feel the taste buds on the back of his tongue dying, but at least he wasn't coughing. He put out the cigarette and leant back, deciding nursing the coffee would be a safer route of Parisian behaviour.

"The crepes are good here," Daphne remarked, studying the menu which seemt to be a three-dimensional cone of electricity extending up from the table with the words of foods circling around it. Michael couldn't make heads or tails of the words, but he decided that was because the cylinder was spinning too fast for the average human to see more than a blur.

"They have good game bird, too," she continued, pointing to a random spot on the cone which seemt to have paused at her touch. It was across the way, though, so he still couldn't read it. "They even have birds of prey."

"I don't want to eat that," he replied softly, and he didn't recall exactly why, but he felt as though his throat was suddenly swollen.

"Would you rather eat snake?" she replied irritably.

He blinked at her. "Er, not particularly?"

Her hackles seemt to lower at that, and she sat back again, sipping her coffee. "I'm not terribly hungry really."

Michael, inexplicably upon hearing the talk of the bird plates, wasn't either. He quietly sipped his coffee, and though the cup appeared to have an unending supply of the hot black drink in it, he couldn't seem to drink enough to not be parched. "I think I need water."

"I'm bored," Emilia said, sighing and doing something below the table that caused the menu to click off. She frowned at Michael expectantly.

"Want to take a walk?"

"Is that the best you can come up with?"

She seemt awfully testy today, and he couldn't say why since they'd had a rather pleasant brunch just an hour earlier and had been making equally pleasant small talk since. "I'm sorry?" However, that obviously didn't appease her, because she was looking at him in a way that made him feel like he'd just had a bit too much cooling potion. Was she saying he was dull? "Look, I'm no bloody Harry Potter or Cedric Diggory or Draco Malfoy," or Roger Davies, Anthony Goldstein… the list went on for some time, really, "but I do the best I can. Isn't that good enough?"

He knew she wasn't Daphne, but she was the closest thing he had to Daphne right now, and for a moment he was overwhelmed by the fear that this was all real, and he'd never find the real Daphne, or worse yet… if this was a dream, why hadn't he woken up? It seemt either way he was trapped with this imposter who seemt to know exactly what to say to trigger every paranoia and self-doubt he'd ever fostered in a girl's presence. He couldn't seem to make anything right for her. So even though he kept telling himself she wasn't the real thing, every time he incurred her wrath, her cold silence, every angry word that came out of her familiar, tempting mouth, burnt.

"What are you thinking?"

He blinked and put the coffee aside, because he had just burnt his tongue again. "Sorry?"

"Are you thinking you don't love me?"

"I've said it a million times. I love Daphne."

"And I'm Daphne."

"Right."

"Right?" she replied, starting to look quite irate. "Right? After all I've done…! You would have died dozens of times, but I was there, wasn't I? I've seen you at your worst and never walked away, and you have the gall…"

"But you aren't the real thing," he replied, feeling that familiar anger welling up in his stomach. Not to mention the fact that she had walked away from him in his most dire moments many times in the last few whatever. He might not recall much before he woke up on that beach, or really much since then, but he could recall, at least, all the times he'd been abandoned.

"You promised. You promised not to leave, but that's all you can think about, isn't it?"

"I don't feel like talking about this right now, so stop it," he decided, in a last ditch effort to keep the conversation civil, to add, "please."

"Stop it? Stop it! You promised to stay with me. You said you loved me, but all you want is to run away. All you ever do is run away!"

"I love Daphne," he replied quietly.

"I am Daphne, Michael, so if I'm not real, then she isn't either."

"Shut up! Just shut up! Don't say you're her, because you're not. You aren't real. This place isn't real! I hate it! I hate you!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. The glass shattered silently, which was odd (but no odder than anything else so far), the glittering shards rose into the air and suspended there like a miniature solar system for a long moment before abruptly dropping to the ground. Michael paused, momentarily too distracted by the gleaming debris to pay attention to Emilia. When he looked up, her face was in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking.

"Fine," she sobbed. "Hate me then. I don't care!"

"You don't care?" he parroted. It hurt to hear those words in Daphne's voice, even if he knew Emilia wasn't Daphne. However, he found himself laughing despite. "Of course you don't. You aren't real."

Her hands left her face, and she scowled at him through the tears that seemed to gather on her cheeks like stars, like the glass revolving in space, and he realised her cheek was cut and dotted with black-red. "I'm not real, is it? This place isn't real? But listen to this, Michael: this place is where you exist, so if it's not real, if I'm not real, you aren't either!"

If he just turned, he wouldn't have to listen to her anymore. He wouldn't have to recognise the fact that he was beginning to doubt whether he actually existed in a real place anymore. If he just looked the other way… If he just turned away…

"I'm sorry. I still love you," he remarked quietly, dabbing the blood from her cheek with his napkin.

-16-

She didn't much want to be around him, it seemt, which would explain why he was stuck on the east side of Berlin, while she was in the west. It made no sense to Michael, really, because for as long as he'd been conscious, there'd been no real Berlin Wall. It had been torn down for years now. Thus in his recent recollection, there'd been little to keep people from traversing sides. Even if she wasn't his Daphne, he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by loneliness when she was gone, which was why he was presently making every effort to drink his troubles away. The only problem was that the bartender wouldn't believe he was of age.

"I just turned 17…" He couldn't exactly recall how many months ago anymore, which didn't much help his case. The bartender stared at him in disbelief, never pausing in his mechanical scrubbing of the mug in his hand. Michael sighed in frustration and stepped down from the bar. At least he might be able to have something to eat, because he was starting to get terribly hungry, and he noted—as he passed a random mirror advertising Heineken—that he could hardly recognize his own face anymore, or maybe it was because he couldn't recall his features. He suddenly thought he could understand how Daphne felt that day in the library when she was five and making paper airplanes.

He dropped down into an empty booth only to realise that it wasn't empty, but rather two girls were sitting across from him. He blinked, and then he blinked again, because it seemt that neither girl had any facial features other than mouths. He rubbed his eyes and peered, but it seemt his initial impression was exactly right. The funny thing was…. He felt rather familiar with the mouths the girls were sporting. Of course, the shock of red hair cascading over the shoulders of the girl on the left and the silken sheet of black sliding over the girl on the right's shoulder were dead giveaways.

"Cho? Ginny?"

The two girls stared, except they had no eyes, but he knew they were staring at him nevertheless.

"Cho?" asked Cho's exceptionally pretty mouth.

"Ginny?" chorused Ginny with her own familiar, slightly long lips.

"Well, if you aren't Cho and Ginny, who are you?"

The two girls turned to each other before turning back to Michael.

"I'm Failure Number One," said Ginny.

"I'm Failure Number Two," added Cho. "You can call me 'Two,' if you like."

Number One glared faintly at Two at that, but as they only had mouths, Michael couldn't tell by their expressions whether it was because Number One was jealous of Two's forthcoming ness, or if some other unknown code of conduct had been broken by the familiarity extended to him.

"Would you like a drink?" asked Two, holding out her glass to him. Inside was what appeared to be tequila because it was a golden sort of colour and there were worms crawling around the bottom of the glass.

"No thank you," he replied, leaning away from the glass of worms.

"How about mine?" asked Number One, holding her own drink out. It was a strange green mixture, and it seemt to be bubbling in a rather disgusting fashion, as though it was the slime scraped off the bottom of a stagnant pool.

"No, thanks," he replied again, leaning away from Number One's drink now.

"You have a problem with acceptance," said Two with a little frown.

"Yes, whenever you have a problem, you run, and then you expect the next thing to be the answer without working for it," continued Number One.

"You're too indecisive," added Two.

"And you need to learn to deal with life's blows like a man," said Number One thoughtfully.

"You keep running away, so you can never get home," Two remarked, sipping down a worm.

Michael squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "You're certain you aren't Cho and Ginny?"

However, both girls ignored him, continuing their ponderings.

"You're sort of like a moth. When the light goes out, you just go to the next place, but you never find anything anywhere you go because you have no sense of self."

"I have a self," he replied defensively.

"You could have become a healer. You might have challenged the N.E.W.T.s and sat the test. You tried to take the easy way, though, knowing you couldn't be an Auror," said Number One.

"You know about Hogwarts, then?" he asked, feeling momentarily excited.

"You can't be your friends," added Two.

"No one likes a masked face."

"Look, I appreciate the advice, but I'm getting a bit tired of being torn apart," he started, only to be cut off.

"You lied to her, didn't you? Said you wouldn't leave, but you did, didn't you? You always leave."

"You left," repeated Two bitterly, taking another drink of worm juice.

"You told her you wouldn't leave," One continued, "but you're breaking your promise."

"You'd better find a way to fix that," said Two, turning to One.

"Or she'll be Number Three," said One, turning to Two.

"I want to wake up," Michael said quietly, shutting his eyes for a long time, willing himself to regain consciousness, trying to cling to the desire to see the real Daphne, to make sure she was all right, but when he opened them again, the two girls were still sitting across from him. "I think I'll have that drink after all," he sighed. Number One and Two turned back to him and held out their glasses, and he took them both.

-17-

Michael leant against the glass storefront before him. It felt cool to the touch and eased the smoldering behind his forehead. It seemt that he was in a small compartment looking out into the street, which wasn't so bad in itself. The problem was that he was naked standing in front of this window, and there was an electric fence around the curtain, which obviously made discretion a bit complicated.

He'd tried the door a few times, but it seemt to only open from the outside. Finally, growing weary of trying to cover himself, he dropped onto the bed only to realise someone was already in it. He peered up at Emilia. Her knees were digging into the back of his head rather painfully. He was once again struck by how very much like Daphne she was in appearance. In fact, he found himself reaching out to slide his fingers through the curls at the end of her chestnut hair before he could recall that she was an imposter who, as he now recalled, he'd been warned of many times in his journeys.

She definitely seemt to have dropped all pretense about wanting him to wake up. She was smiling in that secretive, predatory way, but even that had a hint of Daphne's familiar smirk. She took his hand and smiled in a less feral fashion, and now she really seemt like Daphne, so he turned away for a moment to regain his bearings.

"They can't see you if you're under the sheets," she remarked, glancing at the people outside the window.

Michael wasn't sure that was a good idea, but he was rather weary of being stared at, so after a moment's hesitation, he slid into the bed next to her, and the curtains miraculously snapped free of the barbed wire.

"See?" Emilia said, looking pleased with herself. She draped her arm over his chest and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Her hair was pooling over his chest, and he could again smell the intoxicating scent of honey that continued to confuse his sense of Emilia and Daphne. Closing his eyes only made it worse, but he was feeling tired again, and he didn't like the room they were in. He didn't like being trapped, and he was beginning to feel degraded. What had happened to those cotton pants? Finding those would be a start, but when he looked around the floor, there was nothing but checkered tiles like those in his mother's kitchen.

A clock, previously unnoticed, above his bed struck the quarter hour, and a piece of paper that appeared to be a check in sheet popped out and drifted down to the bed. He picked it up and glanced at it, but the words blurred and made his eyes and temples sting, so when Emilia took it from him, he didn't resist.

"That's a bit high, isn't it? But I suppose you're worth it," she said with a smile before throwing the paper to the floor.

He wasn't quite sure what she was talking about, but it appeared that the room was filling with incense. It had a thick, clover-like smell, and the smoke made his eyes water. He was aware that somewhere in the room, the Weird Sisters' latest hit slow song was playing. Emilia's leg slid between his own, and she drew herself closer to him. It was like second nature for his arms to help draw her closer, and so he was doing so even before he realised he didn't want to be this close and naked with her.

She brushed her mouth over his collarbone, and he was once again made aware of how cool her breath was. It felt nice against his still too hot skin. He didn't want to; he kept telling himself that being with Emilia was cheating on Daphne no matter how similar they seemt. He tried to tell himself that he didn't have to respond to anything she did, but it seemt that he was watching himself from somewhere else in the room, because he could see the no in his brain and the yes in his form quite easily with only sheets covering them.

The moment of self-voyeurism ended, though, and he decided it must be the incense. Perhaps it had some sort of hallucinatory effect, or maybe it was part of the dream that he couldn't escape from… He wouldn't mind splitting in two right now and walking away from the him in that bed that couldn't seem to push Emilia away. At least he didn't have to watch and experience, and that was a blessing because even though he couldn't exactly recall his own face, he didn't want to see himself betraying Daphne since it seemt he was inadvertently to go through it. He made a soft sound of protest, but Emilia took that for encouragement, moving even closer on top of him. She leaned down to kiss him on the mouth, and for a moment, her hair formed a canopy around both their faces.

She drew away, smiling faintly, and there was an innocence in her hazel eyes that made his breath catch. He almost called her Daphne, but he caught himself even as the words were at the top of his throat. He swallowed roughly, trying to force the words and the illusion away. If she didn't seem so much like her… It would be so easy to tell her no if she just wasn't wearing Daphne's face and if her hair didn't smell like honey and if her eyes didn't look so naive.

"It's all right. It's not the first time, is it?" she murmured, kissing his chin.

"No, it's not," he replied, sounding throaty despite the coldness of his words. "I haven't…"

"You have," she replied, smiling as she brushed her mouth over his. "Remember?"

"No, with Daphne," he replied, a little panic breaking through the edge of lust.

"With me."

"You're not Daphne."

She laughed softly and slid her hand through his hair, cradling the back of his head. "Then you aren't Michael," she teased, kissing his forehead, "so what does it matter?"

"Stop it."

"I love you, Michael."

"STOP IT!" The shout put him back in his right mind, and he found himself out of the bed again. The foggy incense swirled thickly around his feet, obscuring them. It was rising upwards towards the bed. The smell of it was starting to choke him. Emilia was also rising, climbing from the bed and stepping up to him. She looked hurt, her light eyes seeming to tremble even in the hazy light. One hand went to his hip, drawing him closer, and his brain was starting to feel heated and clouded again, so he was having a hard time focusing on the thought telling him to get away from her.

"Look at my face and tell me you don't love me," she murmured, sliding one hand up his stomach. She offered him a faint smile and parted her mouth just so. Her eyes were wide and pleading, and he knew she was doing it on purpose. She was trying to make him think she was Daphne. She was toying with him, and it infuriated him.

"Would you stop? You're driving me nutters," he said quietly, though his voice was quickly becoming sharp. "You look like her, talk like her… For God's sake, you even smell like her!"

He wasn't sure how it happened, but the smoldering feeling behind his eyes and in his stomach erupted, and he was shoving her backwards. She crumpled to the bed with a cry of pain. He stepped back, staring at his hands as though he'd never seen them before, as if they were dirty now, and in fact, it seemt as though there was black ink seeped into the pores and lines.

"And what if I am Daphne?" she asked shakily, staring up at him without bothering to right herself from the fall. Her nearly green brown eyes glared at him through the curtain of wavy brown hair. The honey was seeping into his sense again, even over the clover, and he gripped his head, trying to force it out.

"Stop playing with my head."

"What if I was?" she asked more urgently, hazel eyes distinctly pained now as she started to roll onto her back with a tender slowness, apparently favouring the shoulder she'd fallen on.

"Stop it. Stop playing with my head," he replied fiercely. Despite the horror of lashing out against her, he found himself now with his hands to her sides, her face was close to his own, and wrath was behind it. He thought, perhaps, he might strangle her, but she seemt unafraid.

"What if I am," she paused, her eyes drawing him in insistently, and then whispered, "Mikey?" His eyes widened momentarily, his resolve wavering long enough for her to pull him down onto her. He knew if he just turned away, he could stop her.

-18-

He awoke feeling hot and cold. He knew he was cold because he was shivering, and he knew he was hot because he was sweating. It was a nauseating feverish feeling that made him wonder if he wasn't a little delusional, and that perhaps he might just throw up here and now. This was why he wasn't sure at first how he came to be in that bed with Daphne's long brown hair pouring over the pillows. It had never seemt that long, but then, perhaps he just hadn't paid enough attention. As it was, it nearly draped to the floor on his end of the bed, and it smelt exactly like her: like honey and grain and animal fur. It smelt like home, and he wondered if perhaps he was home, because he seemt to be in the Ravenclaw dormitories.

Only there was no way they could get away with being naked in his bed in Ravenclaw with the curtains drawn, and there was no way her hair could possibly be so long, because it looked now as though it was growing even, cascading down and pooling in a gleaming pile of chestnut before his nightstand. The curtains also appeared to be under the same effect, the navy folds lengthening and almost seeming to melt to the floor where they began in small tributaries of fabric to cross over the floor. It looked a bit like veins even, and Michael felt himself too afraid to step off the floor, which was teaming with fibres of human hair and velvet.

Except he still thought he might throw up, because he was trembling hard enough to upset his stomach, and his face still felt unpleasantly burnt. He wiped the sheen from his forehead and locked his arms around his knees, leaning his mouth to his knees, and begging it all to stop, because it had come to him that it probably wasn't really Daphne who was lying so peacefully towards him. Somehow the dark blues of his duvet and pillows seemt to perfectly accent the traces of blonde in her hair and the sheer whiteness of her skin. In fact, it was painfully light now, glowing perhaps, so much so that his eyes watered looking at her, and he had to turn away from the worry of blinding himself.

He wanted out of there. He wanted away from her more than anything and he wanted away from her glorious silky hair and he wanted away from the artery-like Ravenclaw blue threads crisscrossing his floor, but he couldn't move because even blinking made him feel as though he'd be sick on himself. He had done it. He'd betrayed Daphne as he'd betrayed Cho, and as he realised it, he felt choked, but then he realised it was because the sheets were at his throat, and Emilia—no, Daphne; no, Emilia; no, Daphne—she was drawing them closer to herself because her fair skin looked deathly pale and a little purple now, and he realised there was, in fact, two of her in the bed with him, except one was choking him from beneath the covers, and one was choking him from above.

The new Daphne's hair seemt to be entwining with the others, and she looked a bit pained as it happened, her brows drawing together in discomfort. He drew his hand up her thigh, and it was still wet with him and her, and he knew that couldn't be right either, because the other Daphne's leg had appeared to straddle the covers, and she, too, had that sheen of post-sex moisture still clinging to her thigh, and he thought the air was full of that chalky smell, and it was going to choke him before the sheets did. He shook the Daphne above the covers, because he knew she must be the right one, and she opened her eyes, except they were black, and he drew back, retching from the swiftness of the movement. The other Daphne's eyes fluttered open in the meantime, and Michael dry heaved, for it seemt that he had nothing on his stomach, and he was glad because as long as he was being strangled and smothered and trapped in a web of delusion, at least he wouldn't have to be trapped with his own vomit.

"Mikey," they both said at once, sounding high pitched and worried so that their voices hurt his ears, and he continued to try to draw away from them, because Emilia's hand was sliding up his own bare thigh, and Daphne had tears in her eyes and was clutching at her own throat, and he wanted to faint, but whatever reality he was in, it wasn't one he could easily escape. He fell off the end of the bed. His head throbbed for a moment, and he wondered if he'd cracked it on the stone floor, but the pain shooting forward through his temples to the bridge of his nose made the nausea subside, and he started to scramble backwards, his palms opening as he fumbled against the floor. Red streaks marked the stone as he pushed himself back towards the heavy oak door leading out of the dormitory.

The blanket had twisted around him so that as he made his escape, it was still covering him, except to his terror, he realised that the threads from the curtains were now interweaving with the comforter, and no matter what he tried, he couldn't get it off himself. Not only that, but Emilia was still holding the end of it, trying to draw him back onto the bed, whilst Daphne reached out mutely with her free hand, as though begging him to save her from whatever invisible thing was choking her. Michael took a step closer to her, ignoring Emilia's pleading jerks on the blanket. Daphne's eyes were rolling towards the far corner of the room, and he knew that if he just turned, he'd see who was threatening her, and he could save her.

If he just turned.

If he just turned.

If he just turned!


End file.
